


That I May Know What Holds the Earth

by Liara_90



Category: RWBY
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/F, Future Fic, Interrogation, Not Shippy, One Shot, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Psychological Drama, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: In the aftermath of their adventures in Atlas, another battle is won, and Team RWBY has captured Arthur Watts.Blake has one pressing question she needs answered. Watts is all-too-happy to enlighten her.





	That I May Know What Holds the Earth

* * *

_“Where u at?”_

Ilia thumbed the message to Blake onto her Scroll, hoping it sounded casual and knowing it didn’t. There were still another ten minutes until the time of their scheduled rendezvous, but Ilia just wasn’t comfortable standing about alone on the airship. A lot of wayward glances were still shot her way, and the sense that this was _enemy territory_ was proving difficult to shake. No more than a year ago, the only possibility she’d ever had of seeing the inside of the Atlesian’s flagship - His Imperial Majesty’s Airship _Adamantine_ \- would have been as a visitor to its brig.

Ironically, that was exactly where she was now.

The Atlesian flagship was heading south, on a circuitous voyage that would take it to Mistral and Menagerie, before arcing north again for Vale. The Kingdom of Atlas had been kind enough to provide their airship with an aerial phalanx as an escort, ensuring them as smooth a transit as could be asked for in these turbulent times.

After the shit they’d gone through in Atlas, Ilia wasn’t going to complain.

“ _I’m here._ ”

Ilia’s eyes darted up, her skin pinkening as Blake’s voice reached her ears. Blake had entered noiselessly from the guardsmen’s quarters, managing to make even less sound than usual. She offered Ilia a small smile, feline ears twitching amicably.

“Well then,” Ilia declared, fumbling away her Scroll, “ready to get some answers?”

Blake nodded her head, but the gesture was more subdued than the combative tone Ilia was attempting. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“As _we’ll_ ever be,” Ilia assured her, falling in step beside Blake as they made their way down into the depths of the _Adamantine_ ’s brig. The few crew about gave them ample bearth, straightening up by degrees as the two women passed them by. “It’s kinda funny, a couple of months ago... I thought I knew _everything_ I’d ever need to know. ”

A smirk formed on Blake’s lips. “I know the feeling,” she said, sympathetically. Membership in the White Fang had had that effect on people, filling them with the certainty of zealots.

Both women suppressed unpleasant memories.

Ilia and Blake came to a stop at the end of the cellblock, in front of the two guards who most definitely were _not_ going to fall asleep on their job. The two women took a minute to surrender their Scrolls and their weapons, before being scanned for any loose grains of Dust. Not that the women were considered security threats - at least, _Belladonna_ certainly wasn’t - but you could never be too careful in a prison.

Not with what was caged within.

“I’ve got your back,” Ilia promised, letting her fingers brush gently against Blake’s. Blake would be leading the interrogation - she certainly knew better than Ilia what information they were after - while Ilia was content to play backup, to provide moral support with her presence.

Blake laced her fingers through Ilia’s. “Thanks,” Blake replied, with a reassuring squeeze. And then she slipped her hand free. “Just... I don’t want him seeing… _us_ … though. _Together_.” Blake’s ears flattened against her head.

Ilia understood, even as she reddened a few shades. There was no sense in identifying your beloved to the Big Bad, imprisoned as he may be. “Right, no worries. We’re pros.”

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time either woman kept some aspect of their identities a secret.

The cell door swung open, allowing the two visitors to enter before slamming shut with a heavy _thud_ , metallic bolts sliding back into place. Even with her Faunus eyesight it took Ilia a few seconds to adjust to the cell’s shoddy illumination, its four corners lit with nothing more than dull red lighting.

At the other end of the cell lay a man on a bench, staring at the steel ceiling. His body betrayed no twitch of excitement at the arrival of visitors, no sign of nervousness or anticipation. They’d stripped him of his jacket, and his skin was shade paler than Ilia last remembered, his hair greasy from his days in a cell.

Somehow, it didn’t do much to diminish him.

“ _Watts_.”

His gaze didn’t wander from the ceiling. “Ah, I see they’ve decided to sic the beasts upon me,” he mused, languorously. His hands were rested beneath the back of his head, providing a pittance of cushioning.

Blake didn’t react. As galling as his petty racism was, she’d learned long ago not to be baited by such insults. Her freshman year at Beacon had certainly demanded no less.

“I’m here to talk, Watts,” she continued, keeping her voice pointedly neutral. “Unless you have better things to be doing?”

Watts smiled a little at her dry jest, sitting himself upright. As he moved, a faint jingling filled the cell, causing Ilia to notice the steel anklet shackling Watts to the wall. For the first time he took them both in, those piercing eyes assessing his adversaries. The intelligence in that gaze hadn’t dimmed one iota.

“And what, Miss Belladonna, would you care to discuss?” His tone was polite, almost amicable, but there was no masking the veneer of contempt that coated his words.

“Simple,” Blake continued, holding his gaze. “I want to know _why you did it._ ”

Watts scratched his moustache. “ _Why_ , Miss Belladonna?”

Blake shook her head, allowing a note of frustration to creep in. “Why you did _everything_. _Why_ are you helping Salem?”

“And _why_ in the heavens would you want to know that?” His tone was flat, but his eyes were shimmering. He had someone to play with, now. “Who cares for the intentions of a black bishop, once it has been captured by a dashing white knight.”

Blake blinked. Chess metaphors were not exactly uncommon amongst those who fancied themselves as intellectuals, but her mind had been ripped away, shot back to that fateful day in the Emerald Forest. To that piece Yang had plucked.

Watts smiled.

“Oh yes, I know all about you,” he continued, hunching forward. “ _You’re the terrorist_.” Ilia let out a seething _hiss_ , her skin shifting to a fiery shade of red. But Blake had a hand on her arm before she could advance. “You had a remarkable ability to always be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Mountain Glenn, Kuo Kuana, Mistral, Atlas…”

“So you kept a file on me,” Blake deduced.

Watts shrugged. “Such as it was. You were never on our radar the way your classmates were.” Another sideways swipe at her ego. “But I believe I know all that I need to. _Certainly_ enough to explain your sudden interest in me.”

He leaned back, encouraging Blake to take a half-step forward. “And why would that be?” Blake asked, doing her best to sound more _bemused_ than _unsettled_.

Watts let out a snort. “Because you’ve come a long way from seeing the world in black and white, Belladonna. Both you and-” he gestured towards Ilia, snapping his fingers “- _Amitola_ here. I dare say you’ve forgiven _her_ for her crimes.”

The fiery red of Ilia’s skin faded, morphing into a midnight blue. Blake didn’t so much as glance her way. “ _Yes_ , I forgave her,” Blake fired back, something raw slipping into her voice. She certainly had no intention of letting their prized prisoner drive a wedge between them. “She made some mistakes, and she’s trying to fix them. Like me.”

“There’s your answer, child,” Watts replied, reclining further onto his bench. “You simply _have_ to know my motivations. You can’t just slander me as a villain like your friends do, _oh no_. You’ve forgiven Amitola here because her intentions were pure, however flawed her actions and results were.” He paused, savoring Blake’s rapt attention. “You can’t properly hate me until you know _my_ motives. You’re a rather deontological one, if we must put a label on these things.”

Blake kept her expression stony. “Someone’s been lonely.”

Watts bowed his head in concession. “I’ll confess to having an abundance of time to plan my lectures.” He glanced at Ilia. “I assume you share Miss Belladonna’s sense of morality? You’d _have_ to - no consequentialist could live with the mess you’ve made.”

“You know me so well,” Ilia said, carefully keeping her voice level. “Why not enlighten us a little more?”

“As to my motives? As I alluded to earlier, I can’t quite see my profit in it.”

His eyes darted to Blake’s hand, as she reached for something in the pocket of her jacket. He probably thought it was a gun, Ilia reasoned, though there was no fear of imminent death on his face.

Instead of Gambol Shroud, however, Blake withdrew a tattered paperback, flinging it the short distance across their cell. Watts picked it up with practised disinterest, eyes skimming the title.

“I can’t say I’m much for erotica,” he replied, setting down the copy of _Ninjas of Love_. “As misspent as my youth may have been.”

“Check the label,” Blake bit back. “It comes from the ship’s library. Answer my questions, and I’ll personally fetch you every book it has.”

Watts’ whole body seemed to tense a little at that. He really _had_ been bored. “Alright, ladies, I’m game,” he replied, slapping his knees enthusiastically. “Fire away.”

Blake blinked, surprised at his sudden about-face. As with everything with Watts, it was a fool’s errand trying to figure out what was real and what was showmanship.

“Okay,” Blake said, buying herself a second to think. “I want to know about… _Tyrian Callows_.”

Watts recoiled slightly, looking genuinely surprised for the first time since their entrance. “ _Tyrian_ , you said?”

“Yeah,” Blake replied, leaning against the opposite wall. “Why’d he join Salem?”

Ilia shot Blake a sideways glance. She was _pretty_ sure she knew Blake’s angle: get Arthur talking about the trivial, the unimportant - warm-up for the real questions. _Probably._

Watts shook his head, as if still in slight disbelief. “ _Tyrian_ was a circus animal picked up by Salem when he was but a child,” he began, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Certifiably insane, in my medical opinion, suspended as my license may be. Salem had him dancing with her strings before he ever had a chance.”

He shrugged, as if there was no real importance to manipulating a man to monstrous ends.

“It was the same with that brat _Cinder_. The girl wanted power, and Salem was happy to hold the promise of it in front of her, like a mule and its carrot.” His dismissive tone caused Blake’s skin to crawl - so uncanny was it to hear one of their most dreaded enemies dismissed so indifferently. “It was like a child thinking they could outsmart their parent, thinking she could use Salem as a means to an end.”

“Like Hazel?” Blake dared to venture. Watts clearly _was_ ready to deliver a lecture; as much as he feigned otherwise, he must have been dying to have voices outside of his own head to talk with.

“Yes, like Hazel, in his way,” Watts allowed, as if a student had raised a valid point in his classroom. “If you two would ever like an example of a _consequentialist_ , there’s your chap. He wants an end, and Salem offers him a means. That end being cracking open your man Ozpin’s skull, of course.”

“Good luck with that,” Ilia shot back, acidly, instinctively attempting to smother down the smug look on his face. She’d been read-in on Ozpin’s trans-corporeal existence.

“How is your Oscar, dare I ask?” Watts inquired, sounding surprisingly sincere. “Still remember his name? The _last_ host Ozpin inhabited was almost completely overwritten at this point in the metempsychosis.”

Blake said nothing, but the way her fingernails dug into her palm was answer enough. “Hazel _knows_ it’s pointless, doesn’t he? He’s just going to get more children killed.”

Watts made a _helpless_ gesture with his hands. “Perhaps. But one can empathize with his fury. Ozpin got his beloved Gretchen killed and never paid any price. And she was hardly the first girl under his care that Ozpin got killed.” He smirked. “Nor, as you well know, _the last_.”

Blake took a steadying breath, forcing oxygen through her nostrils. Whatever her qualms with Ozpin, they were not up for discussion with a monster like Watts. “So what’s _your end_?” Blake demanded, sliding a step closer. “What goal is _so important_ that you’ll help _Salem_ win? Or are you just another one of her puppets?”

Arthur’s expression soured. “Do not try to _goad_ me, girl,” he growled. “I’m upholding my end of the arrangement without resorting to petty insults.”

Blake crossed her arms. “Well then?”

A loud sigh escaped Watts, the fleeting anger fading from him. “Then we have to start at the beginning. How well do you girls know the history of the Great War?”

“Well enough,” Blake replied, unintentionally adopting a defensive tone despite his invitation to expound.

“Then you know the history of the young Valean called Tom’mür, certainly?” His eyes darted from Blake to Ilia, sighing when he saw no sign of recognition. “Tragic. Does _The Martyr of the Colors_ ring a bell?”

Ilia yellowed. “Yeah.”

“Oh, splendid, I was beginning to think your schools had failed you entirely,” Watts replied, glibly. “In her lifetime, she was best known as a _physicist_ , studying the science of color. She was also a poet, which is what she is primarily remembered as. Though not a particularly talented one, if her fragments do her any justice.”

“And this relates to you _how_ , exactly?” Blake asked.

Arthur _tsked_. “Patience. Now the young Tom’mür had a small workshop in Mistral, around the time that Kingdom decided to outlaw artistic expression, following Mantle’s example. Despite her middling poetic quality, Tom’mür refused to stop writing, sending little ditties to her friends in the lab. As the story goes, one of those friends betrayed her, and she ended up in a dingy little dungeon, sentenced to death for her defiance.”

* * *

_The guard outside her cell hears music, if it can be called that. Some harsh woodwind sounds, erratic and untrained. With great effort he recognizes the melody being attempted, from some playground singing game. Unable to ignore the noise - which is bringing back memories of his own childhood - the guards unsheathes his sword and enters the cell._

_At the other end of the dungeon, he sees Tom’mür, though if she sees him she ignores him. In her hands is a little flute she’s fashioned herself, from a hollow reed plucked through the bars of her window. She has whittled a few holes into the reed, for her mouth and for her fingers, allowing her to pipe out those jaunty tunes._

_The guard places a hand of Tom’mür’s shoulder, causing her to spin around, her shackles jingling as she twirls._

Watts tugged at his own manacle, the clinking of links providing an eerie accompaniment.

_“Why do you disturb me?” Tom’mür asks the guard, unintimidated by his sword and his armor and the billowing cape behind him. “Can’t you see that I’m practising?”_

_The guard shakes his head. “But you are going to be executed at sundown!” he declares, incredulous at her response. “Why are you bothering to learn a song?”_

_And Tom’mür spins out of his grasp. “Silly fool,” she chides. “At least I will die knowing it.”_

* * *

Watts leaned back, watching his audience, waiting for the fable to impress its revelation upon them.

Ilia escaped his trance first. “So _that’s_ your fucking excuse?” she seethed. “You want to be the smartest corpse on Remnant?”

“Why not _help_ us, Watts?” Blake demanded, though a bit of a plea slipped into her voice. “You’re a genius. Why not use that mind of yours to _fight_ Salem?”

A disappointed sigh escaped Watts. “My poor girls. _Surely_ you’ve realized it, by now, how inevitable your little war is?”

Blake shook her head. “She’s seduced you, Watts,” she stated. “I know what that’s like. To be promised what you most want, to be manipulated, to be _blinded_ to other paths.” And despite Blake’s warning, Ilia’s hand was around her arm, providing whatever reassurance she could.

“This is not a morality play, Belladonna. I remember when I was around your age, my conscience tormented, a good djinn and a bad djinn warring on my shoulders, as the old tale goes.” He smiled a little at some half-forgotten memory. “But I studied Salem. Studied how she came to be, what cosmic forces crafted her. And the more I learned… the less and less I regret helping her.”

Blake’s brow furrowed. “Salem’s a _monster_ , Watts. She wants to wipe out all life on Remnant. That’s evil incarnate. You know her better than all of us.” Blake’s voice was rising now, ringing off the metal walls of the cell. “How can you justify working _with_ that?”

“We are all going to die.”

There was no triumph in Arthur’s voice, just utter certainty. “You, me, your friends and enemies, the heroes and the villains. We can’t stop her.”

“That’s not true,” Blake replied, but it was a reflexive rejection, without thought or conviction to it.

“It is,” Watts intoned, gravely. “Salem’s existence is woven into the very fabric of reality. You can no more kill her than you can kill the divine brothers themselves.”

“Fine, we’re all fucked,” Blake spat back, an ugly snarl on her face. “Why not die for the right side, then? Why be one of Salem’s pawns?”

Watts smiled, but it was a sad little thing, far from the triumphal smirks of before. “Salem has a saying about that, you know? ‘ _When the game is over, the king and the pawn go back in the same box_ ’.”

He paused, glancing up at Blake. Some fire seemed to have returned to his gaze. “But _when_ we all die... ” He trailed off, shifting to look at Ilia,who had turned a putrid green “I have spent my whole existence deconstructing them, you know. The forces that animate my Salem and your Ozpin, expanding my consciousness to comprehend the nature of the soul itself, the very substance of the divine.”

He smirked, that sickly little grin. “And when we’re all _returned to the box_ , it will be _my mind_ that is most like the Gods themselves.”

Blake felt as nauseous as Ilia looked. “We’re done talking, then.”

Arthur Watts clapped his hands together, the loud _slap_ echoing in his cell. “Splendid. I trust enlightenment has been rewarding for you.”

“I have my answers,” Blake said, speaking through gritted teeth. She pounded on the cell door, and within seconds the bolts were sliding open.

“Then I await my books,” Watts replied. “I don’t expect much from an airship library, but anything on natural philosophy would be a good place to start.”

The door swung open, and Ilia followed Blake over the threshold. But she couldn’t resist looking back over her shoulder, at the monster with the trimmed mustache.

He was staring right back at her, daring her to try to prove him wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader, I hope you enjoyed this tale. As always, please feel free to share your thoughts, opinions, criticisms, and other assorted feedback. It’s the only way I’ll ever improve, and a single comment can brighten my entire day. Also feel free to contact me on [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/) or [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/), both of where I got by the username pvoberstein.
> 
> If you haven’t guessed, I very much like the interpretation of Watts as a reimagining of Doctor Faust, selling his soul to Devil of Salem. This is another exploration of his motivations, which I hope rung true. Apart from Faust, my other main inspiration was Isaac Newton, who was actually into some pretty weird occult stuff, believing he could decode divine truths hidden by God. Watts certainly has an _alchemical_ aura about him.
> 
> And now the random notes: The tale of Tom’mür, trying to learn a new song before she dies, was lifted from Romanian philosopher [Emil Cioran](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emil_Cioran), though he applied it to Socrates. Tom’mür’s name itself is also a _RWBY_ -related Easter Egg, though a damn cryptic one. (There’s also an Easter Egg in Salem’s saying, if you’re an _über_ geek). How exactly one can improvise a flute from a reed was shown to me on [Bob Gillis’ PrimitiveWays](https://web.archive.org/web/20180224192900/http:/www.primitiveways.com/pt-weed-flute.html) website. Ilia’s ability to change colors turns out to be a surprisingly useful literary device, one I hope I didn’t overuse, but I loved it every time. I am also thrilled that I got to use _metempsychosis_ in a fic, because it’s a great word.
> 
> The title is borrowed from Goethe’s _Faust_ , a modification of [the phrase](https://www.linguee.de/deutsch-englisch/uebersetzung/dass+ich+erkenne+was+die+welt+im+innersten+zusammenh%C3%A4lt.html): “ _Dass ich erkenne, was die Welt / im Innersten zusammenhält_ ”. +5 points to Pretentiousness.
> 
> Until next time, dearest readers.


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